The Mark of Hircine
by Taransay
Summary: A man is accused of being a werewolf. You must prove his innocence before it's too late. Vilkas/Dovahkiin
1. Those that Know about Wolves

I.

Those that Know About Wolves.

The upstairs tavern of Candlehearth Hall is alive with gossip, rumour and suspicion. A body has been found not far from the city gates. Ripped apart. The words 'The Butcher' and 'werewolf', are banded about, and then drowned out by the bard's anti-Empire song.

Ciinnafil lowers her gaze.

You know what she is going to say before she even says it.

'I'm sorry.' She takes a sip of water. 'You've waited three days to see me and, well, that's just not my area of expertise.'

The heaviness of dread fills you, causing you to slump in your chair. It has taken you weeks to get to Windhelm. Fuelled on the hope of discovering the truth behind the mark on your arm, only to reach a dead end.

A Nord staggers past singing to the bard's song in a drunken slur.

A pain manifests in your chest – a longing for Jorrvaskr. You think about the long tables lined up in rows. The red banners rippling in the rising warm air coming from the open fire. The dry smells of ale as the kegs are cracked open. The clunk of mug against mug, and mug against wood, and Torvar asking if there's any more before falling asleep.

Suddenly Ciinnafil leaps off her chair like someone has shoved a hot poker into her. 'Why didn't I think of this before?' In her enthusiasm she knocks her food onto the floor. 'Come on, I know someone who can help you.'

* * *

><p>Windhelm is painted grey. Blocky stones make up looming walls that pen the houses and shops into the city.<p>

Ciinnafil pulls up the hood on her cloak and totters off in front.

At first you think she is leading you downwards into the broken and warren-like streets of what has been dubbed the 'Grey Quarter' due to its Dunmer residents. Instead she turns and leads you up steps, and away from the labyrinthine, squashed streets of the world below.

The wind sweeps down the alleyways, blowing flakes of snow.

Ice sticks to your eyelids. Snowflakes stick to your eyelashes, making the world around look blurred and soft. You blink them away, and wipe your hand across your face.

The world is muffled, apart from the crunch of snow under your feet.

The city walls retreat. Up here there are small courtyards with primitive benches, and bare shrubs that tremble in the ice-tipped breeze.

'I don't know how he's done it,' Ciinnafil says. Her void-like eyes dart from side to side. 'Mainly Nords who live up here, and bet you've seen how welcoming some of them are to none Nords.' She snorts. 'I suspect he rents the place. Done a favour for someone and they owe him, or something.'

A grimy coloured house lurks in the corner of a courtyard. There's an empty stone pot next to the front door with a twig - that might have been a plant - sticking out of the top. The front door is accompanied by two thin windows either side. The windows are sealed shut with wooden shutters.

'A warning,' Ciinnafil says, 'Elien lives alone. He doesn't interact much with the outside world.' She raps her knuckles against the door, and flecks of wood splinter off. 'So he may come across a bit… gruff. I can only apologise in advance.'

With no immediate reply, Ciinnafil pounds on the door.

'Elien! Open up! I know you're in there! You might be able to avoid the Aldmeri Dominion, but you can't avoid me!' She turns, looks up at you and grins. 'One moment,' she says, and kicks the door.

'You can't ignore me forever Elien!' Her words come out in a sing-song tone. 'I'm not going away.'

Ciinnafil draws back her foot, and before she can kick it again, the door shunts open an inch.

A long, angular face peers out from the crack in the doorway. 'Gods spare me,' The Altmer in the doorway snaps. 'It's you.'

The door groans and shudders as the Altmer pushes the door open further.

'What took you so long?' Ciinnafil says. 'I've brought someone to see you.'

'So I can see,' Elien says. There's a note of distaste in his voice. He stifles a yawn with the back of his slender hand. There are dark rims beneath his golden eyes.

'Some of us have been up before the sun,' he says. 'Working.' He stares, his golden eyes like beacons. 'Now, whatever it is. Whatever you are selling, I am not interested. No trinkets or talismans, no potions -'

'But my friend -'

Elien snaps his head towards you. He looks you up and down.

A chill runs up your spine and your suspect it is not just because of he cold. You look at the ground; shift your weight from one foot to another.

'I do not want anything off them either. Go away.'

Elien pushes his shoulder into the door, is about to shunt it closed, but Ciinnafil wedges her foot into the gap in the doorway, and tuts.

'Not very polite, is it Elien?' she says. 'Not after I brought my friend to help you with your studies.'

Elien stops trying to sever Ciinnafil's foot with the door. 'Whatever can you mean?'

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle. All of a sudden you feel like a bargaining chip.

Ciinnafil leans towards Elien. 'Werewolf,' she whispers. 'My friend can turn into -'

'I know what a werewolf is,' Elien snaps. As quick as a thief pocketing coin, his gaze is back upon you. 'There's no cure. Happy hunting.'

The Altmer kicks the Bosmer's foot away from the doorway, and slams the door in Ciinnafil's face.

'But, they've seen Hircine!' she calls through the wood.

* * *

><p>Elien's main living area is boarded by bookcases stuffed with tatty books. There's an empty fireplace against one wall, and from the ceiling hangs a crude, wooden chandelier adorned with candle stubs.<p>

The front door slams behind you.

Elien wrings his hands. Ciinnafil isn't with him, but a 'thank you' comes from the other side of the front door.

Elien looks over his shoulder, towards the door. 'Go away,' he growls.

He extends a long, thin finger and directs you to one of the elaborately carved, wooden chairs surrounding a square table in the centre of the room.

'She is a good girl,' he says, and takes the chair opposite you. 'But like all Bosmer, she is a pain in the head and has the attention span of a drunken Nix Hound.' He sighs and fixes his gaze on you through steepled fingers. 'You happen to befriend them one night, and then they never leave you alone.'

Elien reaches for a stone decanter perched upon a stack of books. He pours himself a drink into a tall, thin glass. 'They are like dogs.' He sneers. 'Does not matter how many times you kick them, they always come back for more. But she does have her uses, bless her. Drink?'

You decline the offer.

'Last night, was that you?' He chuckles, and adjusts the embroidered pillow beneath him.

Your heart suddenly increases; you tilt your head to one side and think, last night?

'Fancy a late night snack, did you?'

The drumbeat of your pulse increases, and you ask what he means.

'Last night,' he says, a smile begins to cross his face. 'Werewolf attack.'

A curse forms quick in your mind and you direct it at Ciinnafil for being so flippant about your condition. The weight of your weapon is reassuring, as you look from front door to windows – any possible exit.

Elien catches your eye. A slow smile spreads across his face. He swishes his drink around his glass.

'Could not have been you of course, they have the man in custody. Found him right at the scene of the crime.' He licks his lips. 'One of the guards asked me to take a look at the body.'

Elien sinks into his chair. 'You see, I am a bit of an expert around here. They take me very seriously.' He brings the glass to his lips and gazes at you over the rim with narrow, feline eyes.

'I study manbeast of all kind. But lycanthropy is my speciality. Most importantly I am a scholar of the Daedric Prince many know as Hircine.'

He lurches upright in his seat, slams the glass onto the table, causing droplets of wine to splatter onto the wooden table.

The muscles in your arms and legs tense. You ball your toes up in your boots.

'But here is my dilemma. You are my little conundrum. I have spoken to a lot of people throughout my years. I have spoken to a lot of time wasters. You are not a time waster are you? Altmer lives are long, but I consider every second I spend on Nirn to be precious, and let us just say, any time waster who enters my domain never exits in a happy mood.'

Elien's erratic moves unnerve you. You lean forwards in the chair, ready yourself to get up and leave.

The wind howls down the chimney. Flakes of snow fall like petals onto the black ash in the hearth.

'I have spoken to people who have said they have seen Hircine, even conversed with him. They were all liars of course. Why should I think you are any different?'

You stand up, ready to rid yourself of Elien's company.

The chair tousles the threadbare carpet.

'Let me make this very clear. I am not interested in your visions, your fantasies. Anyone of us can have those. A bit of Moon Sugar,' his voice rises, 'Skooma, and we can all see and speak with Hircine.' He stands and points a finger at you. 'That is it, is it not? You are a Skooma addict. I should have known. Ciinnafil is always wasting my time. Get out. Get out now before I make you regret you ever came looking for Elien.'

You clench your hands into fists; stride towards the door and long for the cold outside to reassure you that you are no longer in his house.

A hand latches around your wrist.

'Where are you going? I have not finished with you yet!'

You turn, Elien's grip is like a bear trap.

Frustration and confusion combine. You shunt yourself sideways into him.

He claws at your shoulder with his freehand, yanking away your cloak and tearing the sleeve of your jerkin.

He stops, all of a sudden as still as a statue, and stares at your exposed arm.

'Oh,' Elien says. His eyes are as wide as a fox's who has just stumbled into a household's larder full of salted meat.

'Oh! Oh, oh! But this!'

Again, you try to pull your arm free, but his grip tightens like a noose.

'This. Now this is special. This changes everything.'

Elien's smooth fingers run over the bumps and discoloured skin of the scar on your arm, and you feel a sensation like one thousand spiders scuttling up your spine.

'Tell me about this. _This. _Is it what I think it is? Of course, _it must be. _Werewolf bite. Hmm... but I wager, not how you caught lycanthropy. No this. _This. _This came from Hircine himself.

He meets your eyes and a disjointed smile dominates his pointed jaw.

'Tell me everything.'


	2. The Man who Turns into a Wolf

II.

The Man who Becomes a Wolf.

'There are things you should know about Hircine,' says Elien.

You sit in a long, thin room that runs along the side of the house. There are no windows, though if they were Elien would have the shutters closed.

Elien lights some candles, shrunken, fat things wallowing in their own wax. It does little to shift the oppressive atmosphere.

You take a deep breath, and feel like your lungs have inhaled darkness.

Elien pushes aside a calcinator, and a stained mortar, and plonks his glass of wine down on a table riddled with cuts and burns like pox marks. He perches himself on a stool, and pings the wine glass with a finger, smiles.

'Black-Briar Reserve,' he says. 'A favourite of mine.'

The smell of a delicate blossom and ripe twinge of grape wafts up from the glass of wine, and beyond that the stale chemical smell of the room.

'Hircine does not care who gets infected with lycanthropy.' Elien sniffs, straightens back his shoulders. 'Personally I would be more choosey and only pick those who showed potential,' and then he quickly adds, 'Not that I am saying I could do better. Who am I to judge The Prince of the Hunt? But you can be anyone; thief, member of the Dark Brotherhood, Jarl of your own bloody domain.' He points a finger. 'You.'

The Altmer waves his hands in the air. 'Just do what werewolves do. That is all he cares about, that is all that matters to him. Hunt. Just hunt. His followers are free to choose whoever they wish to share their blood with. 'Choose who thou wilt,' that sort of thing.'

Elien leans forward on the stool, rests his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. The smile he gives you makes your inside twist. You fidget in your seat.

'However,' he says. 'One thing. One tiny, tiny, tiny thing he does care about, and one thing he has absolute say over is who becomes his companion. Who becomes his champion.'

The wind howls down the chimney in the next room.

'You have seen it, have you not? In the pictures and the statues dedicated to him? Usually he is depicted with a wolf. Sometimes two. They are the wolves he deems most loyal. The ones he handpicks to lead The Hunt.'

There's tightness in your chest. You remember the sound of Hircine's voice. In the caverns of Chillwind Depths, he'd said that one day you would join him.

Elien leans forwards. 'They say that Hircine marks the one he deems worthy,' and his eyes come to rest upon your arm.

You rub the scar on your arm and dig your nails into the puckered flesh.

In the woods there had been someone else. It could have been Vilkas. It could have been Farkas. However, you suspect it was Hircine.

The other person had spoken to you, told you that the hunt needed a leader. They had stood behind you, their skin warm, their heart a steady thump against your back. They'd stroked your hair, told you to not be afraid.

You feel heat creep into your cheeks and you bow your head and ask Elien what 'the hunt' is.

'_The _Hunt,' he tuts. 'The never-ending pursuit that takes place in Hircine's Hunting Grounds.'

The Altmer swipes a hand through his long, golden hair. 'I cannot believe it.' He grabs your arm, nearly yanks you out of the chair. 'I have only seen The Mark of Hircine as drawings in books, never - well never "in the flesh", if you excuse the pun.' He laughs, and takes another sip of his drink.

You ask him if there is any way to remove it.

'Remove? Why would you want to remove -' Elien sighs. 'I suppose you have your reasons. Not for me to pry.'

He slips off the stool, reaches for a bottle of red liquid on a shelf over the table.

'Allow me to demonstrate.' He sits back down, grabs a knife from the table and slices it across his wrist. Beads of blood well-up at the cut. He takes a pipette, dips it into in the bottle and draws up some of the liquid.

'A little concoction of mine. Vampire blood,' Elien says, studying you. 'And some other ingredients that I do not feel obliged to tell you.'

He squeezes the pipette over the cut, and a few drops of vampire blood drop on his skin.

The vampire blood is a thick, rich ruby colour, much darker than Elien's. The two types of blood mix, and then the skin knits itself back together. There is no trace of the cut, just smooth skin.

You hold your breath. If Elien's vampire blood concoction can do that, could it remove scars, and if so Hircine's mark?

'Patience,' Elien says. 'Watch.'

He pushes his hand in front of your face. 'See this?' There's a light yellow scar at the stub of his thumb. 'Did it last week. Burnt myself on the edge of a heated tool. Idiotic thing to do, but hindsight is not a luxury I have.'

Once again he dispenses the blood over the scar. Like the cut, the scar heals to leave no mark.

'Vampire blood can heal most wounds, cuts abrasions. Before I studied Manbeast, I was interested in 'Porphyric Haemophilia'. That Is 'vampirism', to the likes of you. The blood of the vampire is an excellent healing agent, applied to my own recipe, I have altered the chemical compound so that it is able to not only heal fresh cuts but also old wounds. But!' He jumps up, the stool topples.

You bolt upright in your chair.

'Here is where we put it to the real test.'

Elien holds your arm. His fingers are clammy.

'If you are telling the truth,' he smiles. 'Let us pray to Hircine that you are, then even after applying this to your skin, the scar will remain.'

You hope for the opposite. Even if it means invoking Elien's wraith.

This time he sucks up a large amount of blood into the pipette and drops it over the mark.

The blood is cold. It sits on your skin like the droplets of dark red Black-Briar Reserve from Elien's glass.

Elien leans forward. He is inches away from your skin. You feel his breath upon your arm, and your breathing synchronises with his.

The skin beneath the blood warms. It feels like melted wax on your skin. Then the vampire blood dissolves into the scar.

'Oh I knew it!'

A weighted knot forms in your stomach, and your stomach plunges to the floor.

The Mark of Hircine remains.

'Amazing. You are going to have to let me analyse it. Take skin samples.'

Again, you ask Elien if he's sure there's no way of getting rid of it. You notice the notes of pleading in your voice.

You'd worship someone – anyone - any Daedric Prince who might create a magic cloth that would blot out this mark and untie you from your bond to Hircine.

Your shoulders sag with the imaginary weight of the chains that tie you to the Prince of the Hunt.

You're at his mercy.

You slap your hand over the mark as if to stop Hircine's from seeing.

'My friend.' Elien's voice is gentle. 'You have just witnessed the miracle that is vampire blood. If that cannot get rid of the mark, nothing will.'

He rubs his chin. 'No, there is no removing it. Not that I know of. It has been seared into your soul. We could remove all layers of skin, and I wager the mark would be found on the bone.'

He takes a swig of the wine, smacks his lips and grins like he's just delivered the best news possible. 'No, I am sorry, friend. You belong to Hircine. You are his.'

The floorboards outside the room creak, a young woman sticks her head around the door, but the Altmer ignores her.

'Haven't you heard the door?' she says.

The woman's eyes look bloodshot. The parts that should be white are red, and her skin looks like animal hide stretched too thin on a rack. Veins, like thin threads of blue cotton, sporadically dot her face.

'No,' Elien snaps. 'Can you not see I am busy?'

'There's a young one wanting to see your guest.' The woman looks at you. 'The Harbinger, I presume?'

You nod, and the woman beckons a little girl through.

'Go away, go away,' mutters Elien. 'Can you not see, _we_ are busy?'

'No,' the woman says. 'Whatever it is I'm sure it can wait. On the other hand what this girl needs to tell the Harbinger is - what she says - of great importance.'

* * *

><p>The girl leads you through the streets of Windhelm, bare feet padding on stone, snow and ice. Her dress is frayed at the hem, and the patches on it don't match the original material.<p>

There's a gust of wind that blows up snow.

You cover your face with your hands and she pulls her threadbare shawl tighter around her shoulders.

'This way!' she calls through the wind, and you follow her into the large walled in courtyard that surrounds the entrance to The Palace of the Kings.

Like the patches on girls clothing, the Palace of the Kings doesn't match the architecture of the other buildings it dwarfs.

The girl passes unhindered by the guards at the Palace's large wooden doors. She opens one of the doors ajar, and squeezes through the gap.

The Palace of the Kings is the last surveying buildings of Ysgramor's time. It's also home to the Jarl of Windhelm. Ulfric Stormcloak.

Ulfric is the leader of the Stromcloak Rebellion, and the Palace of the Kings is their centre of command.

Though you are tempted to look at the splendour of the palace, you look down at the ground, avoiding eye contact with the servants that brush past and guards that guard the doors.

You are Harbinger to the Companions and Dovahkiin, you'd be a great asset Ulfric's rebellion, but the last thing you want is to choose sides.

Was this child sent to bring you to Ulfric? You panic at such a thought, but then calm yourself, because surely Ulfric would summon you with a soldier, not some urchin off the street.

The girl doesn't enter the reception hall. Instead she veers right, goes down a corridor and into a room with weapon racks, and rickety wooden bed lined in rows with scratchy looked linen, and tables piled with armour.

'Good job, Sophie.' A solider sitting behind one of the table stands, holds out a hand to you.

'Harbinger,' he says. 'Welcome to Windhelm Barracks. I wish your coming here was for different circumstances.'

The guard passes a basket of flowers to Sophie, and pats her on the head.

'I'll have the money for the flowers tomorrow. Could you also get some springs of lavender? I'll pay extra. My wife loves lavender.'

The guard smiles. The scar next to his lips stretches, exposing the thread which keeps the skin together.

'Okay,' Sophie says. She bobs a curtsy to the guard and to you, rubs one of her shoeless, red feet against the back of a bare leg and leaves.

The guard turns his attention to you.

'Got someone down in the dungeon who I am told you can vouch for. Not that it will make much difference. Found him unconscious at the scene of the crime, covered in blood. Not much either of you can say to change the outcome of this situation.'

You ask why this guilty man has asked to see you.

The guard leads you out of the barrack's living quarters and down a flight of stone steps.

'Says he knows you,' the soldier says. 'Well, you'll see for yourself. Don't take much pleasure in this, what with him being …' The soldier hesitates. 'My father always taught me to respect you lot. Damn shame, that's all.'

You are Harbinger to the Companions, and whilst the role brings a lot of respect your way, it doesn't give you the power to rewrite laws or gain someone their freedom. Not even in Whiterun could you do that. So you wonder what this person hopes to gain by speaking to you.'

Four cells line the dungeon. A female guard stands at the farthest one.

She bangs her sword against the bars. 'Step away,' she says.

As you approach she turns to you, torchlight reflected in her armour. 'Careful, Harbinger.' She repeats what the other soldier told you, that the man was found unconscious next to his victim. 'Covered in the innards and remains of the poor sod,' she adds.

You step towards the prison bars.

'Not too close,' says the guard.

The figure behind the bars steps out of shadow.

Beneath the one swollen eye, the split lip and the misplaced nose that dribbles blood, you recognise the man who stares back at you with intense grey eyes.

Vilkas.

'Harbinger,' he says, and lurches forwards.

'Back!' the guard snaps.

Vilkas shuffles backwards. He clutches a hand to his chest. 'Thank you for coming to see me. I - '

His eyes dart to the guard and then back towards you. 'Whatever they are saying, it isn't true.'

You ask what they have been saying.

And he looks at you and you see the concern in his eyes.

'Harbinger. They are saying I am a wolf.'


	3. The Events of the Night Before

III.

Concerning the Events of the Night before.

After you ask the old soldier if it's possible to speak to Vilkas alone, he smiles a smile that barely creases his face and leaves, taking the guard with him.

You hold your breath, wait to hear the clunk of the door shutting, and then turn to Vilkas.

It doesn't matter, you think. It doesn't matter if he has turned into a wolf. You wouldn't blame him. It doesn't matter. Only now it appears someone has seen him, and, it _doesn't matter_, but now, _you_ have to _fix this_.

Your mouth is dry.

As Vilkas approaches the bars you ask him if he has turned into a wolf.

His shoulders sag. 'No,' he says. 'I could not. I would not. It is what I told you last night. Not since I promised the old man.' He clutches the bars. 'Harbinger, you have to believe me.'

Thoughts of last night pulsate through your mind. His lips upon yours, the pressure of him crushing you to his chest. The taste of blood.

You resist touching his hands. But you feel regret and guilt and it draws you towards Vilkas like a moth searching for light.

Only the bars stop your bodies from meeting.

You wipe some of the blood from his face.

He tilts his head into your hand, closes his eyes.

A bitter misunderstanding has brought you both to this point.

* * *

><p>This is what happened the night before.<p>

When Candlehearth Hall started to feel like a prison, when you could no longer appease the wolf with apples and strips of dry meat, you fled.

The wolf inside you sang. Just a moment with the wind in your face, and the snow in your hair, and the stars above, and the blood on your lips.

A pink tinge coloured the sky, giving the light a rose hued glow.

Frozen snow covered the bridge at the main entrance into Windhelm. Beneath the bridge, the White River roared, hauling chunks of ice out into the Sea of Ghosts.

Across the bridge, you scrabbled, like a Skooma addict looking for their next fix.

The guards laughed when, halfway across you slipped. Your face slapped against the frigid stone, and their pearls of laughter filled the air.

That laughter pursued you to the end of the bridge.

'Drunken fool!' they shouted.

The wind blew snowflakes across your face, but they did little to temper the smart of your skin. Or soothe your bruised pride.

The bridge ended, and the path branched off in two directions. The left followed the river as it passed a few farmsteads cradled by the Velothi Mountains.

The nearest farm peeked out from behind some trees. A lantern on the fence post lit up the steps leading to the front door.

You saw the outline of a woman.

The woman shooed her goat with a broom, back into the field at the side of the farm house.

Your heart quickened. A grumble came from your stomach.

You licked your lips.

Realisation struck. It struck so hard that you staggered, and then fled down the path on the right.

But it didn't matter how far you ran, you couldn't escape those thoughts. Thoughts of the woman with the goat, and what their flesh would taste like.

A smaller bridge lay ahead.

A bridge and well maintained road increased the chances of running into another person. Even in the evening. You turned away from it, choosing to follow the dirt path running parallel to one of the arteries of the river.

You smelled the hare before you saw it.

It zigzagged in front of you. Scrambled up the slope of land on the left, and disappeared over the top.

It was then that you realised just how tight you screwed your fists together. How hard you clenched your jaw.

The river rushed past. Vicious and ragged.

When you dipped your hand into the water, it tore at your skin. Left behind a cold burn that remained even when it was no longer submerged.

You massaged your skin. The cold was what you needed. Wake you up from the daze, and drown the wolf inside. So you cupped your hands together and splashed water in your face.

The water hit you like a wall of ice, dragged loud gasps past your trembling lips, and made your vision blur.

A wolf howled. Its call echoed around the cloud swaddled mountains.

Your skin prickled.

At the base of the mountains, sat Windhelm. In the dark, the fire pits made its ice covered walls shimmer like blue glass. The pink sky had faded, and the aura rippled purple and green above the city.

The wolf howled again.

Your throat tightened. You wanted to throw back your head and respond. Scream.

You hadn't managed to drown the wolf after all.

'Harbinger?'

You whirled round. Curled your lips and snarled.

'Harbinger, it's me. It's Vilkas.'

Your nostrils flared, you gritted your teeth.

Vilkas's stood staring at you, fists clenched.

Against the thunder of your heart, all you could think was how? How? With all the roads you had taken to lead Hircine's gaze away from Jorrvaskr, how had Vilkas found you?

You forced a laugh. It sounded brittle in the frigid air.

Strands of hair stuck to your face. A trickle of drool edged down your chin.

Vilkas stepped closer, hands raised and palms turned outwards. 'It's alright,' he said. 'Easy, easy.'

Though you didn't expect them to, his words soothed you.

'You can resist,' he said.

Your knees slammed into the ground and you dug your fingers into the dirt.

'Easy.' Vilkas knelt beside you, his hand stroked your back. '_Easy._'

His voice drew you away from the wolf like a beacon in the dark.

You lifted your head, opened your mouth. But a groan replaced the words you wanted to speak.

'Harbinger,' Vilkas cupped your chin, tilted your head to one side. 'Your eyes.'

Your pupils had constricted and your eyes were yellow. You didn't need a mirror to know this.

Vilkas stroked your back. Removed wet strands of hair from your face and wiped saliva off your chin with his thumb. And, as he did so, the creature that had threatened to burst out of your skin, retreated.

* * *

><p>Vilkas wrapped an arm around you and shouldered your weight. You both retraced your steps; up the dirt path, over the bridge. Back to the city.<p>

The guards at the gate propped themselves against the wall. 'In the future,' one said, 'better make sure your friend can stomach their drink.'

Vilkas growled. 'And you'd better watch your mouth.' his charcoal rimmed eyes looked fierce and resolute, and the hand that didn't support you rested on the hilt of his sword.

They didn't reprimand him.

* * *

><p>Back in the rented room, Vilkas tore the skin off the bed, wrapped it around your shoulders.<p>

He sat you on the edge of the straw mattress, then bent down, gazed up into your face.

Embarrassment rippled in the pit of your stomach. You avoided his gaze. You wanted to apologise, but words became lodged in your throat.

Each day, the wolf fed on another piece of you.

The Companions deserved better.

'It is alright,' Vilkas said. He rested a gauntleted hand on your knee. 'When Kodlak first said that we should resist the wolf, I found it hard. There were times I thought I would never make it. Times where I wanted to rip off my own skin, and let the wolf devour me. But…'

He cupped your chin, rubbed his thumb backwards and forwards across your skin.

For the first time that evening, your heartbeat slowed.

Your eyes locked onto his.

'I have not changed. Not since I promised the old man. Not once. If I can do it, so can you.'

He moved away, unstrapped his chest plate, and lay it on the floor. Next he stripped his arms of the grimy wraps and the gauntlets, and dropped them next to his armour. From a leather bag, he pulled out a shirt.

A cartographer couldn't have made a better looking map than Vilkas' skin. Scars criss-crossed his upper body and torso like roads and pathways. Welts made small hills, and on his chest, dark, coarse hair could have passed for forest.

The Amulet of Mara hung round his neck.

He dropped the shirt over his head, and left the neck open.

'Kodlak had faith in you. _I _have faith in you,' he said.

It wasn't what he thought. It wasn't the wolf you couldn't resist. It was Hircine.

* * *

><p>Vilkas left the room. When he returned he carried two bowls and a loaf of bread tucked under each arm.<p>

'I know it's not the same as hunting your own food,' he said. 'But better than nothing.'

He put the bread on the bed and the bowls on the floor, then took a jug off the chest of draws and poured water into a metal cup.

He pressed the cup into your hands.

'What brings you to this place? This is the home of Ulfric and his war.' He snatched a loaf off the bed and ripped a lump off with his teeth. 'Thought you would want to stay clear. Kodlak would have wanted to stay clear. "Let them wage their war amongst themselves," he'd say. "Our concern is Jorrvaskr. And Jorrvaskr will remain Jorrvaskr regardless of who rules Skyrim."' Vilkas smiled.

You put the mug on the floor and rested your head in your hands.

You weren't Kodlak.

'What is wrong? You have not been yourself, not since Farkas found you in the woods.'

He sat next to you. Breadcrumbs scattered onto the floor.

He dunked a lump of bread into a bowl, ate it, then dunked another and held it out to you.

'It is alright,' he said.

You opened your mouth.

The bread was tough. The weak broth softened the edges, but when you swallowed you felt every inch of its decent.

'Tell me what happened in the woods,' Vilkas said. 'Tell me everything.'

So you told him. Everything except for the parts about Hircine. The less Vilkas knew about Hircine, the safer he would be.

When you reached the part about the other wolf in the woods, Vilkas fixed you with a keen gaze. He opened and closed his hands, flexed his fingers. 'There was another wolf?' he said, his eyebrows knitted.

He cleared his throat. 'When you came back to Jorrvaskr you were speaking Daedric.'

You stood, hands clenched by your side.

The truth lurched towards the opening of your mouth, rested on the tip of your tongue. You reined it back in.

'Tell me. Let me help you. Before you came to us, before you were part of The Companions, were you a Daedra worshiper?'

You wrapped your arms around yourself, squeezed the loaf to your chest.

A loud thump came from the tavern above, followed by a roar of laughter.

It startled you, caused Vilkas to curse under his breath.

You snapped your head from left to right as if you expected a dragon to come charging through the wall.

'Look at you,' Vilkas stood and grabbed you with a fierceness that made the loaf slip from your hands.

The bread hit the floor.

'You are like a startled rabbit.'

His warm breath tickled the side of your face. His chest rose and fell, his rugged breathing only just audible over the thrashing of your heart.

When he kissed you, you savoured the warmth of his arms, the way his cracked lips clashed against your own. How he gave your arms a slight squeeze each time your tongues met, and how the Amulet of Mara dug into your chest.

Stale sweat and mead were the smells you associated with Vilkas. Yet the smells shifted and became the scents of wet earth and of blood.

The change came sudden, and you saw it out of the corner of your eye. How it was that the person you kissed was no longer Vilkas. How his wide and hooked nose became long and bulbous. How his battle grizzled skin became blemished and ruddy.

The person who kissed you looked like Engar.

In the seconds that it took you to take all this in, your mouth filled with a copper tasting liquid. It expelled from Engar's mouth and into your own.

You wrenched away, and fell backwards, coughing blood onto yourself and the floor.

Engar stared down at you. His skin pale. His clothes ragged. And the cut - carved into his throat by the Falmer's knife - grinned like a second smile.

Then Engar was no longer Engar, but Hircine.

Then Engar again.

Then Hircine.

Engar.

Hircine.

Engar.

Engar.

Hircine.

Hircine bent down towards you, hand extended.

You closed your eyes.

'Harbinger?'

The voice didn't belong to Hircine. It belonged to Vilkas.

You opened your eyes, looked past Vilkas, looked at every corner of the room. But Vilkas and you were the only ones present.

'Harbinger…' Vilkas backed away from you. 'If you had not wanted…' His mouth opened and closed. He raised his chin. 'It is alright. I understand now. You just needed to say.'

He reached for the bow he'd propped against the wall, and shouldered it. 'Farkas,' he mumbled. 'I know now. The other wolf. It was Farkas.'

And you let him think that because it was better than the truth.

Vilkas departed. Leaving you with a lump in your throat and a hole in your chest, and with the fear and uncertainty of what you had seen.

You could taste him on your lips. And your own smells mingled with his. And you smelt of stale sweat and mead. And of wet earth. And of blood.

* * *

><p>Vilkas retreats from the prison bars, sits on the floor, head on hands.<p>

'It is silly,' he says. 'I left to go hunt you a rabbit.' He lifts his head and gives you a weak smile. 'I thought it would impress you. Cheer you up. Some proper food, better than the crap they serve at that inn.'

This is your fault. Had you been honest. Told Vilkas the full story. Had you not let him think you pushed him away because of Farkas, he would have stayed with you. And this day would have been a different story.

'I left the city and headed towards the farms, after that... I do not know.' He slams his fist into the stone floor. 'I do not remember, and I am not sure why.'

You tell him you'll discover the truth, because inside you think that's the least you can do.

'Not like this,' Vilkas says. 'Harbinger, if I am to die let it be in battle, not like this. Not by some headman's axe. Not by some lie.'

The lump at his throat bobs. 'I wish to see Sovngarde.'

You collect Vilkas' possessions from the old soldier. There's his bow and quiver of arrows, a small leather coin sack and a bag of potions. Lastly, the soldier drops the Amulet of Mara into your hands.

'I'm not quite sure I believe it myself,' he says. 'I've been around men who murder for fun. They have this look in their eyes, like you're starring into the void. I don't see that in him, too noble.'

You ask what you can do.

'As far as the city guard is concerned, well they've made up their mind. Found at the scene of the crime, and that Altmer has confirmed a werewolf savaged the body.'

The soldier scratches his skin just below the stitching beneath his lip. 'There's no one left to investigate. The guards stretched thin, and anyone left, Jarl Ulfric has claimed for his army.'

You ask if you could see the body.

'You want to investigate this yourself?' He snatches a sword from a rack and runs his hands along the blade. 'I suppose you could. But you'd have to get permission. And for that you'd need to speak to the Jarl.'

Your stomach sinks. As Dovahkiin and Harbinger to The Companions, last thing you need is to catch the attention of Ulfric Stormcloak.

* * *

><p>Upon leaving the barracks, you turn to the right.<p>

The receiving hall lies ahead.

Vilkas' fate lies ahead.

You run your thumb over the Amulet of Mara, and wonder how easy it is to get an audience with the Jarl.


	4. The Thief that Wasn't

IV.

The Thief that Wasn't

The Priestess of Arkay steps backwards.

'What are you doing here?' she snaps. 'The Hall of the Dead is closed to the public at night.'

Beneath the hood of her cowl, you see her eyes widen. 'Defiler!' She jabs a finger at you. 'Necromancer! Come here to steal the body of the deceased!' And she turns and flees.

Adrenaline surges through your body. You think about leaving, but you've come all this way.

Deciding it shouldn't be for nothing, you pocket the lock pick.

There's a stone pedestal to the left, with some sort of relic on top.

The relic looks like a stone ball, boarded by a star. Fat candles squat beneath the pedestal and on the floor around it. They flicker in the dark and cast tall shadows on the walls.

Dotted about are pots and vases, urns, an unlit fire pit, and a wooden table with a shroud spread across it.

The shroud is white, pristine. The bumps that rise beneath it, give a clue to what it obscures.

Your pulse increases, you run your tongue across your dry lips.

You grab a corner of the shroud, go to pull -

'This way! This way!'

The Priestess of Arkay's voice echoes. Follow by hurried footsteps and the clink of armour.

You step away from the table. Your brain runs through the layout of the hall. It's warren-like passageways, how they all converge on the main entrance. You could loop back around. But how many guards are there, and will you come across one on the way out?

Seconds tick by.

The footsteps get closer.

You're rooted to the spot. Your muscles tighten.

Stay?

Go?

Stay.

It's worse to run. You look guilty if you run.

You tell yourself, you _are_ guilty. You've broken into property that isn't yours. You're trespassing.

The Priestess of Arkay appears first, skirts billowing out behind her. Two guards follow.

'See,' she says, once again jabbing a finger at you. 'Isn't it like I told you? Necromancer! Come to steal the body!'

* * *

><p>Vilkas can't sleep.<p>

He lies on his back against the cold, stone floor, gaze fixed on the narrow window just outside his cell.

His been staring at the window since nightfall. Watched as the sunlight evaporated and the sky blushed pink. Tonight there is no aura for him to watch. There isn't even a cloud in the sky.

A million stars look down on him, witnesses to his incarceration.

Cloudless nights like these are colder than the others, and Vilkas thinks about home. How on nights like this everyone gathers inside the belly of Jorrvaskr. How they press tight around the fires. Elbow to elbow, mug to mug. They swap stories, fill their stomachs, and fall asleep surrounded by friends and furs. Warm.

Vilkas shudders.

There's a blanket in the cell, but its thin and dirty, not fit for even a dog to lie on.

Time is absent here. Everything feels paused, and Vilkas, although he would not admit it, feels lonely.

The guard that usually stands outside his cell has gone away to rest. There's no one to replace her because Ulfric has taken the person who would for his army.

Vilkas thinks, it's hard to imagine life continuing, whilst trapped in here.

The door into the prison crashes open.

'Just saying that we do not know the full story, that is all.'

Vilkas sits up.

The cells all face a blank wall, and the door is out of view.

'What's that?' another guard says.

Vilkas recognises the voice that responds.

He gets to his feet, approaches the bars, rests his hands on them.

'Look here,' one guards says.

They stomp down the steps.

'I don't care if you are the Harbinger of Death, you broke the law. We can't prove whether you are a necromancer or not, but trespassing, forced entry. Those are all against the law. For that, you get to spend time in a cell.'

A dishevelled and shackled Harbinger appears. Escorted by two guards. They stop at the cell next door.

The Harbinger lifts their head, and their eyes meet Vilkas'.

* * *

><p>The guards leave. The prison door clunks shut.<p>

Vilkas sits, leans against the wall that boarders the Harbinger's cell. He brings his knees up to his chest, tilts his head back so that he stares at the ceiling.

He draws a long breath through gritted teeth. 'So,' he says. 'What happened? Necromancer, trespassing, forced entry? Shor have mercy. Tell me everything.'

* * *

><p>As it happened, getting an audience with Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, wasn't hard. Desperate men - Jarl or not - will see anyone when they need more people for their army. And Ulfric, though he tries not to show it, <em>is<em> a desperate man.

Ulfric sat on an ornate, wooden chair, on a dais in the receiving hall of the Palace of Kings. He slouched, propping his head up with one of his hands.

There was a cue of three people, leading up to the dais.

You hesitated, went to join the line, but -

As Harbinger, you couldn't risk becoming tangled in the politics of others.

The old soldier said you needed permission to investigate. But if you were careful, no one needed to know.

* * *

><p>'So you decided to walk away?' Vilkas says. 'Concerned Ulfric will pull the Companions and everyone back at Jorrvaskr into his war. I understand that. A wise decision.'<p>

Vilkas rubs the stubble on his face. He hasn't had a shave for a few days, and the hairs are getting longer. Soon he'll have a beard. He wonders if they will let him shave before they lop off his head.

He reassures himself that the Harbinger walking away was the right decision. Tells himself, that's what Kodlak would have done. But he can't help but dwell on what could have been. Had the Harbinger spoke to Ulfric, would they now be riding home?

Vilkas grits his teeth, flicks a piece of straw across the floor.

'You decided to investigate for yourself?' he says. 'Go see the body, see if you could find any clues which would tell you what really happened.'

Despite the circumstances, the corner of his mouth twitches. Does the Harbinger care so much?

'But I am guessing,' Vilkas says. 'They wouldn't let you examine the body? So you had to find a way of seeing it for yourself.'

* * *

><p>The Priestess of Arkay barred the entrance of the Hall of the Dead with her arms. 'Absolutely not,' she said. 'If you are here to pay respects to the dead, then fine. But you aren't coming here to examine a body. Not a body that has already been examined. Now is the time to put that body to rest.'<p>

You tried to argue, to plead your case, but the Priestess of Arkay folded her arms across her chest.

'You have no authority here. Go away.'

* * *

><p>Night fell. Back in the rented room at Candlehearth Hall, you waited for the inn to grow silent.<p>

When you were certain that everyone was either in bed or had left, you made your move.

You pulled on your leather gauntlets, and your darkest clothes. Pulled a hood up over your head, and crept out of the inn.

The Temple of Talos sits just behind Candlehearth Hall. Squashed between the front of the Palace of Kings, and a road that leads down towards the cemetery.

Like the rest of Windhelm, it is a gaudy building made from large blocks of stone. It towers over other buildings. Bird-like statues sit on ice encrusted ledges, accompanied by icicles the size of swords.

In the past, many people came to this temple. Now it is more a monument to Ulfric's defiance, than a place of worship.

You hurried across the street, followed the road to the cemetery.

The Hall of the Dead and shrine to Arkay, are in the temple's basement. There are no windows. The only way in, is through the front door, found in the city's cemetery.

You tucked yourself close against a wall, held your breath and waited. When you were certain there was no one near, you knelt in front of the door and picked the lock.

Twist here, clunk there, a push at just the right time.

The door creaked open.

Your heart pounded, sounded so loud in your head you wondered if others could hear it. You rested a hand upon your chest, drew in a long, slow breath.

* * *

><p>'And you found the body. But let me guess, the Priestess discovered you before you could take a proper look.'<p>

The Harbinger doesn't reply.

'She thought you wanted to steal the body, that you were a necromancer.' At any other time he would have mocked the Harbinger's folly. Laughed. He had neither the strength nor the conviction to do either. Instead he stared at the wall, and felt nothing but the heavy weight of dread.

'I am sorry,' he said. 'About this.'

He made the apology sound like it was for this situation. And it was. But it was also for everything else. Including the kiss.

* * *

><p>The night passes in a whir of fitful sleep. When you wake, there's a tight knot in your shoulders, a crick in your neck.<p>

The prison bars come into focus.

You remember what happened.

Thoughts torment your mind.

If you'd seen Ulfric. Perhaps then Vilkas would be free.

If you'd stopped Vilkas from leaving.

If you'd told him the truth.

If.

If.

If.

You roll over, fold your arms around yourself.

Straw pokes you in the face.

In the cell next to you, Vilkas' sighs.

There's what feels like an empty hole in your stomach.

On your lips you can feel the ghostly trace of the kiss.

When sleep comes again, it drags you into a dark and dreamless place.

* * *

><p>It's the sound of shouting, that wakes you.<p>

Your eyes shoot open when the prison door to Vilkas' cell, crashes open against your bars.

You sit bolt up.

Vilkas is on the floor, a guard pinning him down, whilst another pulls on the chains that shackle his wrists.

'There has been no trial,' Vilkas snaps, he digs his fingers into the stone floor. Then his eyes meet yours and they widen.

'Harbinger, they are doing it today. Now. They say I am to be put to death!'

You shoot up.

The prison bars block your way.

A pressure builds in your chest, as if your heart is about to explode. You grip the bars until your knuckles of white.

You demand to see the Jarl.

'Jarl Ulfric is busy with the war,' the standing guard says. 'He has left this matter in our hands.'

You ask whether the Jarl knows an innocent man is about to die, at which point both guards laugh.

'Innocent? He's as guilty as a Kahjiit found with a purse of coins in his hands.'

Together, they manage to lever Vilkas off the floor. When he is standing, the guard who'd been on top of him pulls back his fist, punches Vilkas in the stomach.

Vilkas collapses to his knees.

There's a pounding in your head. You rattle the bars, and yell at the guards.

In all the commotion, the dragon slips into your mind, coils around your brain.

You feel your breathing still.

There are footsteps. Someone is coming down the stairs. But you try not to pay attention to them. Instead you fix the word for Unrelenting Force inside your mind.

_Fus._

When you speak the word the world goes still. Everything slows.

Your voice manifests in the air. It soars towards the two guards and Vilkas, knocks them backwards and into the prison wall.

The guards slide down the wall, collapse onto the floor. Their eyes are wide, their mouths open.

A helmet lies on the floor. It slowly rotates.

You press your face against the bars. If anything happens to Vilkas, you shout, you will call forth fire. You will burn this place and everyone in it.

The footsteps have stopped, and the old soldier you met yesterday stands by the first cell.

'Thu'um. You speak dragon?' the old soldier says, scratching his chin. 'What they say about you is true...' He looks at the soldiers on the floor, at Vilkas, then at you.

'What is going on in here?'

You tell him, in one long sentence without stopping to breathe.

Again, you demand to see the Jarl.

The old soldier nods. 'Alright,' he says. 'I'll take you to see Ulfric.'

* * *

><p>Ulfric only has seconds to spare, before he must return to the war room.<p>

In his large, rough hands he holds the life of many, and his decisions can save or condemn a man. But over this, he has little control, because he is aware that some people already doubt him. Making a decision they disagree with will only make these people become more vocal.

He heard the story yesterday. Galmar told him. And Ulfric thinks, _a werewolf in Windhelm._ But he has no time to ponder whether the right man has been caught.

Ulfric strokes his short beard.

Galmar paces back and forth in front of the stone dais like a caged bear.

'We're wasting time,' he says, voice as deep and craggy as the Vethlothi mountains.

Galmar stops, turns and faces the approaching newcomers. 'This,' he says, pointing. 'This is the Harbinger? Someone who goes skulking around in the night, breaking into temples and trying to steal bodies?'

The Harbinger snaps. Doesn't seem to care or has completely forgotten the respect one pays in front of a jarl. And Ulfric, rubs his face, hides the curl of a smile behind his hand. Thinks, it's nice to see passion and spirit in someone, when this world has beaten it out of so many.

The Harbinger says that they weren't stealing the body, and Ulfric leans forward. 'Then,' he says. 'What were you doing?'

Galmar places his hands on his hips. A broad shouldered, grizzled Nord who towers over the Harbinger.

It's early, and no candles have been lit. The deep blue shadows on Galmar's face, makes it look like someone has hollowed out his eyes.

Ulfric listens to the Harbinger's story. As he does, he watches the dust particles trapped in the first pale shafts of the frigid morning light.

* * *

><p>The gaze from Jarl's housecarl bears down on you like a weight. Your heart clatters.<p>

Whilst telling Vilkas' story, you study Ulfric's face. You see the expense of war in the wrinkles around his eyes. The deep lines concern has carved into his forehead. And that is all.

The butterflies in your stomach intensify their flapping. And with every beat you hear a whisper that tells you, _Vilkas will die_.

'I'm uncertain of your intentions,' the housecarl says. 'Or what you expect Ulfric to do. Time wasted here is to the advantage of the Empire. Ulfric, come.'

The Jarl of Windhelm gets up from the throne.

Your heart stutters, and you think, _wait, wait, wait. _But can't quite get the words out of your mouth.

'I fear this war will claim many innocent lives,' Ulfric says, steps down off the dais.

Is that what he wants? Innocent blood on his hands?

You remember the first time you met Ulfric Stormcloak. In a cart, on a rough track, heading towards Helgen. Towards execution.

Hasn't he ever been wrongly accused?

The Jarl turns to face you, head tilted a fraction to the side. The right side of his mouth raises.

'Ah,' he says. 'You have me there.'

'Ulfric -'

Ulfric raises a hand. 'One moment Galmar.'

The Jarl strides towards you. 'I remember you now,' he says. 'On the way to Helgen, when we were both about to meet the chopping block. And now you are Harbinger.' He raises his thick eyebrows. 'You have done well for yourself.'

He asks you if you're certain Vilkas is innocent. You tell him that you wouldn't fight for someone you didn't trust.

Ulfric nods, rubs his chin. 'I understand. I feel the same about my men. About Skyrim. Very well. I can spare you no men. You understand this? If you are to investigate, you must do so on your own. You have my permission, to look at the body, question who you must.'

The weight in your stomach lifts.

'And you have three days to do so. That is all I can give you. Some of the people of Windhelm already doubt whether I am fit to rule, do not give them reason to doubt further. When three days have passed, if you have no proof, I will not be able to stop the inevitable from happening.'

Three days. It's not much, but it might be enough.

You turn, go to leave.

'One moment,' Ulfric says, and he folds his arms across his broad chest. 'My men tell me you swept their feet from beneath them, and threw them against the ground. All without moving.' His eyes narrow. 'Magic like that is rare. Not like the telekinetic blast from a mage, but instead a raw and primal power. You know of the Thu'um.'

You finger the hem of your shirt, your chest tightens. You're not sure what to say, accept think, what's the relevance?

'Perhaps when all this is done you will come speak with me? You'll recall the compassion I have shown you, and repay it in kind?'

* * *

><p>The Priestess of Arkay stands next to the table the body is on. She taps her fingers against her thighs, eyes the guard that escorted you in.<p>

She steps forwards, folds back the white veil.

'His name was Torbar, so Elda tells me,' she says. 'He was staying at Candlehearth Hall.' The Priestess snaps her hands together. 'That is all I know. I've been trying to see if he has any family around here, but that doesn't seem to be the case.'

You thank the Priestess for the little bit of information she's given you, and she nods, then leaves. The guard goes with her.

Not far from where you stand, a woman kneels at the Shrine of Arkay. You try to ignore the sound of her sobs as you look down on the lifeless body of Torbar.

His skin is pale, his eyes closed, and his corn coloured hair is lank and scrapped back off his bloated face.

Crude stitches boarder puckered flesh. The Priestess has done her best to pack the wounds and seal them shut, mop up the blood.

You scratch your face with the back of your hand.

The stitches highlight a large gash in the abdomen, and you imagine the skin flapping loose.

There are no teeth marks.

A voice comes from over your shoulder. 'Stabbed.'

It is then that you are aware how silent the Hall of the Dead is. Not even a crackle of flame from the fire pits.

The woman has stopped sobbing, and when you turn she is inches away from your face.

'See the marks on his arms? He raised them in hopes of protecting himself.' She laughs. 'No chance there.'

She walks towards the body. Leans over it so her tangled and knotted brown hair trails against Torbar's skin.

'Lucky Torbar,' she says, and strokes the side of his face. 'It's okay now. He's gone and joined the hunt.'

You can feel heat in your face and your pulse quickens. You ask, what she means about the hunt.

She approaches you, her vivid eyes narrowed. 'Oh. You know.'

You breathe out, and your breathe is visible in the air.

'He was one of us,' she says.

And you whisper the word.

_Wolf._

The woman smiles. 'Hircine,' she says. 'Torbar has joined Hircine, and Hircine has sent me to help you.'


End file.
